


For the First Time

by Not2be



Category: Groundhog Day - Minchin/Rubin
Genre: Character Growth, Depression, Existential Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Panic Attacks, References to Canon, more hopeful than it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 15:03:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14771907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not2be/pseuds/Not2be
Summary: A day Rita spends with Phil during the loop.





	For the First Time

**Author's Note:**

> There are allusions to past suicide attempts but nothing super graphic. Just keep that in mind.  
> I hope you like it, thank you for reading!

She catches him staring at the frozen lake. He doesn’t wonder what the icy water will feel like anymore, he already knows.

“Phil!”

He looks up at her even though he already knows who the voice belongs to.

“Hey, Rita.”

“You know my name” she says surprised, stopping in her previous mission to corral up her weather man.

He wants to shout- ‘of course I know your name, I know the name of your childhood dog, I know the name of your high school English teacher, I know everything about you!” but instead he says

“Yeah, we did the flood story together” He doesn’t know why he’s bothering, maybe he just wants to get through this- he doesn’t have the energy.

“Right, I just didn’t think you’d remember.” He went back to staring at the lake. She’s not exactly wrong.

“You should go, Rita.” but there was no bite, just weariness and exhaustion.  His body felt like led.

“What are you doing out here Phil? You’ll catch your death” She laughs nervously, he can tell she’s trying to feel him out like a spooked animal. When he continues staring despondently at the lake she becomes very serious. The feeling in the pit of her stomach that something is not quite right is starting to become more real.

“Come on Phil, you’re starting to scare me” He squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to scare her, he doesn’t want to hurt her anymore. He won’t forget the time she caught him in the middle of one of his attempts- the look on her face. He didn’t want to ruin her one perfect day; to her every February 2nd was her last February 2nd in Punxsutawney. When she saw it happen, she didn’t know he wasn’t actually dead or that perhaps already was. She didn’t know he was stuck in a Sartre-esqu play, the kind he never actually bothered to read in high school.

“You like literature. What’s your favorite thing to read?” He asked suddenly looking up.

“Sorry- how’d you know that I like-?”

“You must have a favorite” he pressed. He didn’t want to explain anything anymore, he couldn’t muster the energy for false pretenses. He was tired of muddling through people’s questions and surprise every time.

“I-”

“Please”

Her mouth snapped shut and she looked at him for a while.

“I like French poetry”

“What do you like about it?” Maybe her enthusiasm for something would rub off on him instead of making him more exhausted and agitated like the rest of the towns people’s excitement.

She stared at him in confusion.

 “Please Rita, I don’t have time-” he screwed his eyes shut and tried to breathe through his nose his mouth tasted like copper. There was that feeling, he could feel it in his whole body, the yearning, the need to disappear. It would hit him suddenly and intensely like a train. Which he knew the literal feeling of now. That one had been more horrifying than he anticipated.

Why did he leave his bed this morning? This was futile. Phil didn’t want to see any one or talk to anyone he didn’t want to be seen or spoken too he didn’t want to be anything anymore. He wanted to disappear so _badly_. He didn’t realize he was shaking until he felt a hand on his shoulder grounding him back to the moment. Hours or seconds could have passed he wasn’t sure, maybe it was the next ‘today’ again already. 

“Let’s go inside, okay? Have some coffee? Try a sticky bun?”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Do you feel well enough for the ride home, Larry’s packing the van up now-” Rita walked back into the dinner and up to Phil, unzipping her puffy magenta jacket.

“The roads are closed” he heard himself say.

“No, they’re not-” Before she can finish two officers walk in and deliver the news. Phil feels like he could bash his head in on the diner counter. He tamps down his irritation, its not her fault she doesn’t know. Its not anyone’s fault in this goddamn town that they’re rehearsing his nightmare.

“You can go, I don’t need a babysitter” Please don’t go.

“Well that’s good because I’m not a babysitter. I’m a producer.” She says playfully.

“Assistant producer” He smiles a little at her. Rita softly smacks his arm in response.

One part of him want to push her away, the other part of him knows he’ll regret it if he does. Another day alone. The feeling of nausea crept up his throat; he was on a tilt-a-whirl he couldn’t get off. How many hours does he have left to fill in this day? Until the next 12 hours or 720 minutes or 43,200 seconds, then another 43,200 seconds…He feels his chest get tight and his breathing hitch. There’s a rushing in his ears and he doesn’t know if its already starting all over again. He’s trapped, he’s trapped and there’s no exit. There’s too much and too little- he has all the time and no time. he feels like he’s vibrating in his skin. Jeff drops his tray. No escape. The diner door’s bell dings. No escape.

_Stop stop stop stop stop_

“Phil? Phil are you okay?”

 _Shit. I’m having a panic attack,_ he realizes. He thinks of the Xanax in his pocket, he hasn’t thought of the pills since he tried to OD on them. Twice. Once when Rita caught him. Now they sit like a led weight in his jacket, and though he knows she doesn’t remember he can’t bear the thought of taking one now in front of her.

Rita takes charge and leads him outside to a bench away from prying eyes. She sits him down and makes sure he’s looking at her.

“Okay Phil, you’re okay. Do you mind if I touch you?” In any other circumstance he would have made a joke, now all he does is nod his head. He knows panic attacks can’t actually kill you, but for once he wishes they did.

Rita places a hand on his chest trying to ground him.

“Okay watch me, we’re going to breath together.” She counts the breaths in, hold, and out a few times with him until his breathing returns to somewhat normal. They sit in silence for a moment, his hands still feel tingly and his leg bounces but he’s better than he was a moment ago.

“How’d uh, how’d you know-” Rita is suddenly aware that her hand is still on a certain weather man’s chest and removes it self consciously.

“I had a roommate in college who had panic attacks” He files that away under his mental folder of all things Rita. A silence settles between them.

“I know we’re not very” He gestures vaguely between them while he struggles to form the words.

“And you can tell me if I’m crossing a line but…can I tell you something…personal?” He doesn’t know if he has a right to ask this of her, the old entitled Phil wouldn’t have even given it another thought.  

It wouldn’t be a shock to anyone, but emotional vulnerability is not Phil Connors’s forte. But because no one else remembers anything, he thought vulnerability would be a zero-sum game at this point. Nothing lost nothing gained. He thinks he shouldn’t be nervous, but his stomach drops anyway.

“Um…sure” She smiles at him encouragingly, open and honest if a little hesitant.

“I’m not…I’m having a really _really_ bad…” _what? day? Life time?_ “I’m having a really hard time right now.” 

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Oh god no.” He laughs again a little sadly. Pause.

“We’ll just have to make this a really excellent day then” She smiles with resolve; he thinks he could cry in that moment if he wasn’t so numb.

“Yeah?” Phil responds lamely. There’s a chill but he doesn’t bother closing his coat. Rita shivers and rubs her arms.

“There’s so much to do here!”

He snorts “Not as much as you think.”

“Oh, so you’re telling me you’ve done this all before, you’ve seen everything Punxsutawney has to offer?”

“Something like that.” She looks at him curiously for a moment, but then stands up with gusto.

“Well, today you’ll be doing it with me.” She offers her hand and he reaches out to take it.

They eat fudge, well she does, and they make snow men.

The whole time they’re on the tilt-a-whirl, he can’t take his eyes off of her. She’s bursting with joy, like it’s an art form; part practice and part inherent natural talent.

It’s like he’s really seeing her for the first time. Realizing makes him feel warm for the first time in a long time. She’s not perfect but she’s so…Rita. And that’s all she needs to be.

 

And he’ll never get close to her.

 

Phil never thought he would want to be known by anyone. Being a recognized as a pseudo celebrity was one thing, that was power and opportunity. Now, he had gotten a consequence free life, he had gotten power. It wasn’t what he wanted after all. He was a stranger to everyone, perhaps even before the loop.  No one can get to really know or see _this_ Phil Connors or any Phil Connors that isn’t the one he’s grown to hate. There’s no time.

The sun is setting, he knows the morning is on their heels. All love ends in pain, he knows. As they stumble on she leans in to him and he lets her.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They’re lying on Phil’s tiny, putridly decorated bed staring at the celling. He feels an odd sort of buzzing in his chest.

“I’d forgotten days could be this good…How’d you do it?”

“I’m a great producer” she laughs, and he laughs with her.

There’s another comfortable silence.

“When I found you at the lake this morning-” She abandons that and starts over.

“You said you were having a bad day…what…why?” What could he say to that.

Because I’m stuck in an existential nightmare, because nothing matters, because I’ll never have another tomorrow, or a sunny day, or a good cup of coffee or a birthday

 He blinks rapidly trying to keep the building moisture in his eyes at bay

 “No one. In my life… loves me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true”

“No, it is.”

She looks at him like a familiar stranger and he wonders if that will finally kill him. He squeezes his fists digging his nails into his palms. Rita stops him by taking his hand. Her hands are soft and warm he tries to commit them to memory.

“Someone could one day.” She says sleepily but there’s so much hope and promise in it. He swallows thickly around the lump in his throat.

“No, they really can’t” but she’s already fallen asleep, and in a few hours, she won’t remember. He holds her hand anyway.


End file.
